


Personal Best

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Bottom Eames, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: “‘Good-luck charm’?” Arthur repeats, sounding a bit scornful. “I don’t think I’ve ever had my dick called that,” he adds after a moment, with a smirk.





	Personal Best

The entire time Eames is in Arthur’s room, from the door closing behind them to the way he stumbles out on worryingly shaky knees after Arthur’s shooed him off so he can get ready, there’s a persistent voice, that of his old coach and mentor, in his mind telling him that sex the night before a big competition is not a good idea. 

Eames had never listened before and he hasn’t started now, but Miles’ voice is louder and louder in his mind. Yet he ignores it during that day’s competition to… accomplish a personal best in Men’s Downhill.

Eames has been known to be superstitious—something he blames on his mother—and, well, there’s only one thing for it. 

He seeks out and finds Arthur in the Village’s bar that evening, looking perfectly composed, professional, and somewhat brooding—the air of competence that makes him an object of fascination in the press, as Team USA’s most stalwart right wing player, always dependable when it comes to defending the, well, defenseman. And the best at landing punches. It was, in fact, happening to catch a television playing Arthur hauling off and beating the shit out of someone that had caught Eames’ interest in the first place. 

“‘Good-luck charm’?” Arthur repeats, sounding a bit scornful. “I don’t think I’ve ever had my dick called that,” he adds after a moment, with a smirk.

“No need to be smug,” Eames tells him.

“I disagree,” Arthur says. “I think there is a need to be smug.”

“Well, nevertheless,” Eames says, standing up, then jerking his head just a bit toward the exit. Arthur hastily downs his drink and follows, and this time Eames gets to be a little smug at how quickly and smoothly he does. Years of skiing and the accompanying training regimen have given him, he knows, an ass that won’t quit, as was once put to him (by someone who subsequently put it to him).

Arthur is nothing if not determined, and there’s nothing leisurely about the way he strips Eames down in his room as well as himself, ignoring or simply listening to Eames’ breathless jokes about locker rooms and showers and jockstraps as Arthur kisses him almost everywhere but his mouth, letting him talk but with decreasing coherence, starting to babble when Arthur’s long fingers are slicking him up and probing him, blithering nonsense by the time Arthur’s pushing in his good luck charm. Arthur smiles down at him, slightly predatory, finally looking somewhat disheveled and red in the face like Eames feels, and as Eames tries to babble something further Arthur quiets him with a kiss, at last.

Arthur’s stamina is absurd and relentless; Eames isn’t as flexible as he used to be, and his knees ache far more often than not, but he does his level best wrapping his legs around Arthur’s damnably agile and powerful hips, gasping, one hand clinging to the headboard behind him, holding on for dear life. Arthur shifts at one point, going faster as he gets closer, and honest to God _growls_ as he drives in, and that’s Eames done for, coming messily between them after only just getting a hand round himself.

They lay there, sticky and panting, Eames moreso than Arthur, although Eames notes with savage enjoyment that he’s still disheveled and flushed. 

“This had better do the trick,” Eames tells him, as Arthur pulls out and raises himself up on sleekly muscled arms that make Eames a little lightheaded to observe. Superstitious as he is, he doesn’t specify what event he’s doing the next day, although they both know.

“Want another round just to make sure?” Arthur asks, deadpan, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair.

“Do I, fuck,” Eames says, eloquent, cock bobbing in interest, straining to get back into the game, as it were. “My ass will be sore, but… I suppose I’ll live.”

Then it’s a matter of rousing Arthur’s cock once more, something Eames revels in as he gets to apply his own kissing and groping skills, drawing reactions from Arthur he mightn’t have thought possible from his day-to-day appearance. In short order, Arthur turns him over and fucks Eames facedown into the bed, a position they decide would be kinder to Eames’ knees. Eames clings to the mattress during and afterward, getting up with a groan when Arthur tells him he wants to strip the sheets and call down to housekeeping, and casually suggests that oh, maybe Eames wants to get in the shower with him.

Arthur corners him against the slick tile under the warm spray, kissing and stroking him into coming an insane-for-his-age third time, after which he’s properly washed off and dried, and led to a now-clean bed which he almost doesn’t want to sully with yet more bodily fluids, and yet he’s exhausted and knows he needs to sleep. He’d intended to go back to his, but without further discussion he opts to stay here, Arthur spooning up behind him. 

There’s no time to get up to much that morning—mandatory early practice—but Arthur does kiss him very soundly, and pat him on the ass when he leaves. 

Eames not only beats his personal best, he wins gold.

Team USA Men’s Hockey, however, does abysmally, with the commentators pointing out how Arthur Levine’s focus seems to have gone entirely out the window, with him making several shameful mistakes. 

“You know,” Eames tells him that night, “my old coach always told me it wasn’t a good idea to have sex the night before a big event.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur groans, hoarse, hips pushing forward as Eames’ finger finds and nudges his prostate, his cock angry and red and bobbing impatiently.

“Settle down, darling; after all, at least you get to sleep with a gold medalist,” Eames tells him, and leans in, gliding his tongue up the underside of Arthur’s good luck charm in a long slow line before taking him in completely. With the shuddering sound Arthur makes, Eames judges that it is again a time to be smug.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know anything about sports but you get the idea ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
